


The Worst is Over

by DisplacedKey



Series: Diarmute AU Week 2020 [5]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, M/M, Sexual Assault, Sleazebag Raymond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25478983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisplacedKey/pseuds/DisplacedKey
Summary: Diarmuid is doing another supply run for Raymond's gang when he meets a stranger.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute, Raymond De Merville/Brother Diarmuid
Series: Diarmute AU Week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838056
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	The Worst is Over

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hozier's "To Be Alone".

“I have to go out again.”

Ciaran frowned. “So soon?” 

Diarmuid shrugged and pulled on his boots, tying the laces tightly. Ciaran’s hand brushed his face, his fingers lingering over the purpling bruise on his cheek. 

“He hit you again.”

“I tried to refuse,” Diarmuid said, shrugging again. “I should’ve known better.”

Ciaran tilted Diarmuid’s face so their eyes met. Diarmuid prickled with guilt when he saw the sorrow in his father’s face. “I’m sorry, my boy,” he said. “If it weren’t for me, you could’ve fled this place a long time ago.”

Diarmuid sat down beside Ciaran on his bed. Their shared room was tiny, really a basement closet that had two twin beds shoved into it with barely enough room to move around in. The walls were a sickly yellow-white and everything was illuminated by a camping lantern on the floor. It looked like a prison cell, which was appropriate. He took Ciaran’s hands and squeezed. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have anything to live for.”

Ciaran sighed. “Diarmuid, I’m just an old man. You should—”

“Don’t you dare,” Diarmuid said, shaking his head. “I’m not abandoning you, so stop bringing it up, okay?”

Ciaran pulled Diarmuid closer and kissed the top of his head. “Please come back safe.”

“I will, Dad. I promise.”

Diarmuid grabbed his empty duffel bag and left the room. The basement was cool and damp and dark, lit by the light filtering in through the glass-block windows. Diarmuid climbed the steep wooden steps and knocked on the door. The guard unlocked it and let him through, and locked it behind him once he was out. Ciaran would stay locked down there until the gang needed their meals cooked or another one of their messes cleaned up. 

Raymond stood in front of the door, his arms crossed. “Remember to get everything on my list,” he said. 

“I know,” Diarmuid said.

“And if you don’t come back, your old man—”

“I  _ know _ ,” Diarmuid said. 

“Don’t get snappy,” Raymond said, his eyes narrowing. “Is that any way to talk to someone who provides for you?”

“Provides for me? I’m the one getting half your supplies,” Diarmuid said without thinking. Raymond grabbed the front of his shirt and jerked him forward, glaring.

“I provide you and your old man with a house and protection from the outside world,” he snarled. “Running errands is the least you could do, you spoiled little brat.”

Diarmuid was pretty sure that holding someone hostage wasn’t the same thing as giving them a safe home, but he knew better than to push it. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Raymond’s hand trailed upward, cupping Diarmuid’s jaw. “How sorry?”

Diarmuid’s stomach twisted; this never got any easier. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to Raymond’s. Raymond buried his hand in Diarmuid’s hair and deepened the kiss, shoving his tongue into Diarmuid’s mouth. Diarmuid stood with clenched fists until it was over. Raymond smirked and said, “Well, I’m convinced. Have a nice trip, sweetheart.”

Diarmuid ducked out of the door and made tracks for the gate, scrubbing his sleeve over his mouth. 

The world was coming alive with the early breaths of spring. The meadows were dotted with buttercups and cowslips. Birds flitted through the branches of the budding trees; a woodpecker was hard at work somewhere in the woods. Sun shined down despite the chill. Diarmuid was glad. It hadn’t been a pleasant winter. Between the long hours trapped in Raymond’s mansion and the quiet, icy trips into town, Diarmuid had found few things to appreciate. 

The list this time was relatively simple. It was a grocery run, and as usual Diarmuid was expected to bring back any cigarettes, alcohol, and ammo he could find. Normally Diarmuid would caution against smoking. Nowadays he prayed that Raymond and his men would smoke and drink themselves into various forms of cancer or organ failure. It was one of the reasons he didn’t leave behind the cigarettes and booze. That and the fact that when Raymond thought Diarmuid was holding out on him, he got...irritable.

Town had largely been abandoned. Higher population density meant that once the plague got out of control, the zombies quickly outnumbered the living. Everyone who could, left, and most of the ones who stayed had been bitten and turned. Diarmuid knew there were probably a few isolated holdouts, but he’d never seen them, and he doubted they were eager for a chat.

As usual, the streets were swarming with walking corpses. Anyone else would’ve run for their lives. Diarmuid headed straight for the crowd and walked right into it. Bumping into them was the worst part—their cold and rotting skin, their bloodied clothes, their vacant expressions. He was disgusted and grieved in equal measure. 

The zombies didn’t attack him. They never did. For whatever reason, they never registered Diarmuid as food. He could walk through a crowd of zombies while singing at the top of his lungs and they wouldn’t so much as swipe at him. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know of anyone else who had this immunity, either. 

Ciaran had thanked God when they first discovered it, but Diarmuid had mixed feelings. It was his immunity that got them kicked out of their village; Father Geraldus said it was a sign that he was part of the Devil’s army, just like the zombies. If they hadn’t gotten kicked out of their village, they never would’ve fallen into the hands of Raymond and his men. Ciaran told him time and time again that it wasn’t Diarmuid’s fault they’d been kicked out, it was Father Geraldus for stirring up hate and suspicion. Hating Father Geraldus helped, but it didn’t completely quell the guilt.

At the grocery store, Diarmuid looked through the mostly-empty shelves for whatever non-perishables remained. He stuffed boxes of pasta, crackers, and cans of beans into his duffel bag. He managed to find a single case of beer and a few cartons of cigarettes as well. Raymond would be pleased, and when Raymond was pleased, he was...kinder.

_ Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.  _

Diarmuid shook thoughts of Raymond’s bed from his mind. He couldn’t dwell on that. If he did, he’d have a breakdown and that would delay his return by too long. Raymond didn’t like it when he lingered in town. 

There was a rustling sound from the bathroom and Diarmuid frowned. It wasn’t likely that zombies had gotten into the store, but it wasn’t impossible. He wanted to check, though, just so he knew. They didn’t hurt him, but that didn’t mean he liked being startled. 

He pushed open the door to the men’s bathroom and came face-to-face with a man holding a bat. He yelped and stumbled backward, his head knocking against the door. The man’s eyes widened and he lowered the bat, putting one finger on his lip in a shushing motion. 

Diarmuid stared. “Where did you come from?”

The man grimaced. When he spoke, his voice was low and hoarse. “I only came here to restock. I can usually get around without attracting too much attention.” His eyes looked Diarmuid up and down. “What are  _ you _ doing out here? Where’s your weapon?”

“I, uh…”

The man stared at him incredulously. “You don’t even have a weapon? Are you crazy?”

“Listen, I’m fine,” Diarmuid said. “You—look. What’s your name?”

The man rubbed a hand through his hair. “David,” he said. “It’s David.”

“Nice to meet you, David. I’m Diarmuid.” He stuck out his hand. David shook it. His hand was large and calloused and warm. “Are you...planning on staying in this area, David?”

David shrugged. “Not sure. Not in town, definitely, but...I don’t know.”

“I wouldn’t,” Diarmuid said. “I’d turn back and leave the way you came, if I were you.”

David frowned, slinging his bat over his shoulder. “Yeah? And why’s that?”

Diarmuid squeezed the strap of his bag. “There’s a gang that operates around here. They don’t like trespassers. If you’re lucky, they offer you a spot with them. If you’re not, they either kill or capture you.”

David’s eyes flickered over Diarmuid’s face. “You talking from experience?”

“Just don’t stick around here,” Diarmuid said, his eyes sliding away. 

Silence reigned for a few moments and then David said, his voice soft, “Do you need help?”

The question made Diarmuid’s eyes burn, but the tone made the tears spill over. It had been so, so long since anyone other than Diarmuid’s father had spoken a kind word. Diarmuid buried his face in his hands, but David pulled him into a one-armed embrace. Everything spilled out—his power, his father, Raymond holding them both hostage to use Diarmuid as an errand boy and worse. Maybe it was naive to spill his guts to a stranger, but something about David made Diarmuid trust him. 

“Show me where he is,” David said. “I’ll take care of him.”

“My dad—”

“I’ll save him too,” David said. “I promise.”

“Why? They’ll kill you.”

“Pieces of shit like that don’t deserve to live,” David growled. 

Diarmuid wiped his face and took a deep breath. “Okay.”

They escaped town by going across the rooftops. On the way through the woods, Diarmuid told David the layout of the mansion and the surrounding area. Their plan was for Diarmuid to distract Raymond while David picked off the gang members, working his way from the outside in. 

“You don’t have to do this,” David said. “I’m sure we can manage this without you putting yourself on the line like that.”

“Raymond runs a tight ship,” Diarmuid said, shaking his head. “He’ll absolutely notice if some of the men stop answering their walkies and realize something’s up. Unless he’s occupied.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“It probably would’ve happened anyway,” Diarmuid said with resignation. “Just...try to hurry, if you can?”

“I’ll do my best,” David said, grimacing. They reached a sharp curve in the road and Diarmuid gestured for him to leave; from here, the lookouts would be able to spot anyone on the road. David nodded and said, “See you soon.”

Diarmuid waved him off and watched him creep into the trees. Hope kindled in his chest for the first time in months. 

Inside the entryway, Diarmuid forced himself to keep an impassive facade as Raymond looked over his haul. Raymond opened a beer, took a swig, and grinned. “Very nice,” he said. “Good work today, sweetheart. How’s about one more gift for me?”

Diarmuid suppressed a shudder. Instead he nodded and let Raymond lead him up the stairs, down the hall, to his bedroom. It was huge, with an ensuite bathroom and a king-sized bed layered with soft blankets and pillows. Diarmuid wouldn’t trade it for his ratty twin bed, not knowing what kind of monster slept in these silk sheets.

Silk sheets that Raymond pushed him onto. Silk sheets that were soft against his bare skin once Raymond peeled off his clothes. Diarmuid hated silk sheets. He never wanted to feel them again. He never wanted to do this again.

Beyond Raymond’s labored breathing and the slap of skin on skin, Diarmuid heard a shout. Raymond paused and Diarmuid, feeling a surge of panic, reached up and pulled him in for a kiss. Raymond chuckled. Another shout, a thud. Diarmuid took a deep breath and forced a moan, squeezing his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to see the self-satisfied look on Raymond’s face. It went on like that forever; a shout or a thud from somewhere within the mansion, and Diarmuid moaning to cover it up. 

Raymond was kinder, but that never meant much. When he finally rolled away, Diarmuid’s hips were blotched with purple and bite marks marred his shoulders. “See, sweetheart? I knew you’d come around,” Raymond cooed. “No point fighting against a good time.”

The door flew open and crashed against the wall. David strode into the room, soaked head-to-toe in blood, a dripping mallet clutched in one hand. Raymond swore and scrambled out of the bed while Diarmuid dove under the blankets. David launched himself across the room with a roar; there was a wet  _ thud _ and Raymond’s swearing abruptly stopped. 

Everything went quiet, save for the sound of David’s labored breathing. Diarmuid peeked out from the blankets and saw David looking at him. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner,” he said. “I’ll, um...you said your father’s in the basement?”

Diarmuid sat up and nodded. David’s eyes flickered over the bite marks and his expression darkened. “I’ll be alright,” Diarmuid said. “What about the rest of the gang?”

“Dead,” David bit out. 

Diarmuid blinked. “All of them?” At David’s nod, he let out a tremulous laugh. “What do you mean?  _ How?” _

“I used to be in the army,” was all David said. “I’ll go get your dad and you can, um...”

“Get dressed,” Diarmuid said quietly. “Yes, thank you. Thank you, David, truly, I—”

“It’s nothing,” David said, averting his eyes. “I’ll just—I’ll go. Meet me in the entryway when you’re done.”

Diarmuid nodded and David quickly left the room, shutting the door behind him. Diarmuid yanked his clothes back on, wincing at the now-familiar soreness that came when he moved. Before he left the bedroom, he walked over to Raymond’s body. His face was destroyed, completely caved in from the force of the blow. Diarmuid grabbed one of the sheets and used it to cover him, if only because he didn’t want to have to look at his nakedness any longer. He slammed the door shut behind him when he left. 

Diarmuid found Ciaran still in the basement, holding the camp lantern aloft like a weapon while David held his hands out, saying, “I’m not here to hurt you, your son—”

“You think I’m going to drop everything and trust someone covered in blood? Get out of here before I—”

“Dad!” Diarmuid said, ducking around David to tackle his father into a hug. “It’s alright, David’s here to help us. He killed the whole gang, including Raymond.”

Ciaran squeezed Diarmuid close, kissing the top of his head. “Diarmuid, thank God. I heard all this shouting and these other horrible noises, I was afraid—well, you’re here now, and you’re okay.” He turned to David again, looking him up and down. “You killed Raymond?”

David nodded.

“How?”

“Caved his face in with a mallet.”

“Good,” Ciaran said. “Bit too quick for my tastes, but it’ll do.”

David’s lips quirked into a grim smirk. “I assume you two don’t want to stay here.”

They shook their heads.

“Then we’ll have to get out of here. We should wait until tomorrow to avoid traveling at night.”

“And before we head out, you might want to wash the blood off yourself so you don’t attract every zombie in a five-mile radius,” Ciaran said. David grimaced.

“Right. I’ll go do that now.”

“I’ll go get the food from the kitchens together,” Diarmuid said. “Dad, why don’t you look around for other supplies we might need? We should get it out of the way now.”

Ciaran nodded. They went their separate ways. Now that Diarmuid wasn’t desperate to see his father, he could notice his surroundings with more clarity. The place was a bloodbath. Dead bodies in various states of brutalization littered the hallways. Blood pooled on the ground and dried on the walls in wide arcs. Bloodied axes, knives, shovels, and hammers lay scattered across the floor. The kitchen was blessedly empty and free of blood. The pantry had too much for them to take, so Diarmuid loaded up as much as he could and headed out to find his father.

Ciaran’s voice came from the direction of the bathroom. Diarmuid headed over and heard David’s voice too. 

“I really just want to help,” David said, sounding flustered.

“Bullshit,” Ciaran said flatly. “I’ve seen the way you look at my son, and I’m here to tell you that if you so much as lift a hand to hurt him I will make a crushed skull look pleasant.”

“Sir, I don’t—”

“Diarmuid has been through enough!” Ciaran snapped. “He is not a tool to be used or a toy to be played with, and he is certainly not a prize to be won, so if you did this with the hopes of getting  _ him _ out of it, you’d better put that thought out of your mind.”

“I know,” David said, “I know, okay, I’m not trying to hurt Diarmuid, I swear—”

Diarmuid nudged the bathroom door open with his foot. “Dad? What’s going on?”

David stood over the water-filled bathtub, stripped to the waist and dripping with a mixture of water and blood. Ciaran stood in front of him with crossed arms, his scowl fading when he looked at Diarmuid.

“Nothing, son,” Ciaran said. “I’m just clearing something up with our new friend.”

Diarmuid stepped forward and touched Ciaran’s shoulder. “I trust David.”

“I know,” Ciaran said. “But—”

“I trust him,” Diarmuid repeated firmly. “He helped us and I trust him. He won’t hurt me. Right, David?” David nodded. Diarmuid smiled. 

Ciaran pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alright. But my threat stands.”

“Naturally,” Diarmuid sighed. “Now, please, stop harassing him and let’s go gather supplies.”

Ciaran raised his hands, nodded to David, and left the room. David cleared his throat and said, “Thank you for that.”

“It’s no problem,” Diarmuid said. “You helped us a lot. We basically owe you our lives. I figure a little trust is the least we could give you.”

David shrugged and gestured to the tub. “I have to, uh…”

Diarmuid flushed, trying and failing to keep his eyes from flickering over David’s muscular torso. “Right! Right, yes. I’ll, um, let you do that. Okay.”

He turned and left the room. Ciaran stood against the wall and raised an eyebrow when he saw Diarmuid. “You ‘trust’ him, huh?”

Diarmuid’s blush deepened. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

Ciaran sighed. “I stand by what I said. If he ever does something you don’t want, I’ll rip him in half. But only if he does something you don’t want.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Diarmuid sputtered. 

“I’m your father, Diarmuid. I know you,” Ciaran said. “And sometimes you are very predictable.” He raised an eyebrow. “The strong, gallant type, hmm?”

Diarmuid huffed and stormed off. Ciaran chuckled and followed after him. 

**Author's Note:**

> This zombie apocalypse is barely part of this, but it counts!


End file.
